


When the Smoke Clears

by zenelly



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Mental Health Issues, More tags to be added, Post-Canon, i am absolutely ready for this to be jossed circa this time next year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-07 18:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17965718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenelly/pseuds/zenelly
Summary: Aoba Tsumugi graduates. He graduates, enters the idol industry and-Well, success doesn’t come to everyone immediately, after all.





	When the Smoke Clears

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning that this is going to be me messily spilling my emotions about Tsumugi Aoba for a so-far untold number of words because I LOVE HIM. That boy has made some MISTAKES and he has some ISSUES and this fic is where I'm dumping pretty much every headcanon I have all into one big pile. You guys get to join me as I sort them out~
> 
> Fic title is from the most Important Tsumugi Song I've Ever Heard, aka ["The Valley" by Betty Who](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WA-eTl99ifA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years down the line and Tsumugi still hasn't quite found his footing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said i was going to have self control and that i wasn't going to post this until the whole fic was done
> 
> i lied.
> 
> (chapter title from "sunflower" by post-malone and swae lee)

One of these days, Tsumugi thinks as he fills a glass with tap water, he really does need to get around to paying for power to this apartment. Sure, he’s managing right now, but his right foot throbs from meeting the joint of a doorframe when Tsumugi managed to misjudge distance. It might be nice to come home to a bright apartment, with food that he didn’t scrounge from the local combini on his way back after a long day’s work.

Especially now. Tsumugi shivers, hikes his blanket up a little higher over his shoulders. No power means no heater and every day, it’s a little harder to roll out of his cocoon of blankets as the temperature continues its steady march towards freezing.

Ah well. Another morning of waking up cold won’t hurt him.

Taking a drink, Tsumugi shuffles around his small kitchen. If he remembers right, he left a few onigiri for himself last night, and they should be fine to eat given how low the temperature has been. Tsumugi opens the wrappers, folding himself in front of his low table. He fishes out his phone with one hand.

He really should get out of the habit of checking his fortune every day, but even now, three years past graduation, Tsumugi finds it oddly difficult. A strange curl of panic swells up in him if he doesn’t at least know what lucky item he’s supposed to carry around, even if he knows he shouldn’t care anymore. It’s been years since he took such a passive approach to his own fate. Still, OhaAsa is open on his phone before he knows it, and Tsumugi scrolls down to Leo, checking and checking-

A shiver. A clutch around his lungs, a pit bored into his stomach as he reads, finds another site with a more complete horoscope and more information and he’s _unlucky today_ of all days. Tsumugi can’t quite stifle the noise that comes out of him. He bites his lip until he tastes iron.

Damn it, not _today_. He’s on set today.

He’s fine. He’s fine, he’s fine.

His lucky item is just a hair tie, Tsumugi thinks to himself as he searches his dark apartment for one. He runs into another wall with a muffled whine, and he pushes his glasses back up his nose, glad they haven’t fallen or broken yet. He only has just the one pair, hasn’t found time to get a back-up set, but he manages to make it to his bathroom without too much destruction in his wake.

“Should be… right around here,” Tsumugi murmurs to himself, voice cracked with disuse. When he straightens, he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

Wan face, dull eyes behind the glint of glasses, and all of it obscured by a wild mane of hair. Curls escape him every which way, and Tsumugi winces as he thinks of how many knots there must be from sleeping on his hair since he forgot to braid it before sleep again. He’s barely recognizable, like this. Unkempt.

(No wonder Eichi used to make sure he got his hair trimmed regularly. No wonder Natsume-

He’s not thinking about it.)

Tsumugi grabs a brush and a handful of hair. He’ll just have to start at the bottom and work the tangles out as he goes. His hair goes past his shoulders now. Still nowhere near as long as, say, Hibiki-kun’s used to be, but Tsumugi still hasn’t gotten it cut. For some reason, every time he tries, he can’t bring himself to ask for more than just his bangs cut.

He checks his fortune again, silences the anxiety with a red hair tie, pulling his hair into an untidy ponytail at the nape of his neck. And Tsumugi doesn’t think about golden eyes and candy red hair or the sharp snap of the familiar, derisive words that used to lay out his future in the basement of a dusty library.

He’s fine.

Tsumugi takes a deep breath in. He promises himself that the faint hint of ash and smoke clinging to his lungs is only his imagination.

It doesn’t shake on the way out, and he says his goodbyes to an empty, silent apartment as he heads out for the day.

He’s fine.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for your hard work, Aoba-san!”

The atmosphere around set is easy and busy, stagehands running here and there, managers talking to their clients and other actors, and in the middle of it all, Tsumugi feels like he’s underwater and perhaps no one has noticed yet. Noise filters strangely to him, distant and muffled. As though it’s happening too slow. Perhaps no one else is impolite enough to mention it as they casually side step around him.

It’s the same as always. Day in and day out. Tsumugi makes a point to fade against a wall, to get out of the way.

People part around him, giving him the same berth of space one gives a piece of furniture.

He’s used to that, at least.

That much is familiar.

Like this, his head resting against the wall, Tsumugi can hear the idle chatter of everyone on set. It’s amazing, he thinks, how little care everyone takes for their voices. It’s always so easy to just say the right thing in the right place, at _just_ the volume to be overheard, to start people wondering. He used to be good at playing that game. Sly words here and there, greasing the wheels where diligence couldn’t quite manage.

A voice, filtered through the rest.

“I heard his unit from Yumenosaki didn’t reform. Oh, it’s such a pity. Aoba-san is so hardworking, but his unit members were both so odd, remember? I’m sure he’s better off with a less… eccentric image, but apparently, he was waiting for them before he officially debuted and-“

Tsumugi leaves, walking quickly down the hallway, uneven steps matching the uneven beating of his heart.

He doesn’t need to listen to everyone saying what he already knows.

(“What a shame,” he heard for the first months. “He waited for them and they both just decide to leave overseas? The least they could have done is bring him along with them too.”

“Well, Aoba-san is on a different level from the two of them after all, so it’s no surprise he’s being left behind.”

No surprise.

It still hasn’t stopped stinging, drawing Tsumugi’s breath short in his lungs with the scent of ash and fire.)

Take a deep breath, Aoba Tsumugi. This is how it is now. The constant grind; the look overseas to hear anything, anything at all; fading more and more every day as his hair grows longer and his voice quieter. This is just how Tsumugi lives.

There is a limit to how much hard work can achieve after all.

Pin up the corners of his smile now. Tsumugi steps around the corner into a different part of the set and zeros into a small group of workers assembling a set. He recognizes one of them from a few projects he’s worked on now, and smiles as he comes closer. “Do you need a hand with that?”

“Oh, Aoba-san, please, we could never-“

But he insists so casually that it’s barely any time at all before they allow him to help and Tsumugi gets to lose himself in tasks that come with easy, preset goals. Go here. Put this piece here. Paint this part of the set. Make sure these lenses are clean. Nothing he has to decide for himself. Clear, and he washes the grime off again and again until all he can smell is the astringent cleaner.

“There you are. Aoba-san, you’re needed back on set five minutes ago.”

Ah.

Tsumugi extricates himself with a few murmured apologies.

A whisper as he walks back with the director, already imagining his manager’s disappointed eyes when she finds out he wasted time again today, “He really likes to help out behind the scenes, doesn’t he? He’s always doing this sort of thing.”

“I heard that was mostly the sort of work he did before he graduated too. Can you even remember him being involved in many performances? On stage? I know Yumenosaki has been putting out a fair number of idols recently, but I can’t remember him.”

“No, not at all.”

Tsumugi runs his tongue across his lips. Wants, more than anything, to bite until he bleeds, but that urge, too, subsides.

The hair on the back of his neck seems awfully heavy.

He doesn’t have anything scheduled after filming the drama, so Tsumugi has the car drop him off at the agency. There should be practice rooms available at this time of day, with most of the idol groups trying to wrap up by dinner time, and Tsumugi nods at a few passing clusters of people that he recognizes as he badges in. He could go home. Theoretically, the option is available to him. But all that waits for him is a dark, lonely apartment. Better to work on something productive, he thinks as he shucks his shirt, changing into his practice outfit.

Besides, he couldn’t sleep anyway. Not with the way something prickles along his spine, hot and cold like panic. Like lightning in his skin.

The mirror wall greets him as he enters the practice room. Knots in Tsumugi’s shoulders unclench a little at the familiar atmosphere and surroundings. Shouldn’t be too hard now, to warm up, to remember the little beginner songs they taught at Yumenosaki, just enough to get Tsumugi warm and breathing fast.

How long has it been since he’s been up on the stage? Tsumugi is practicing, but alone.

There should be two other people beside him. He was never Switch’s leader or their center. That was always Natsume. But Tsumugi turns, catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, and has to blink away the afterimage of two others in green-lined white. Keeps thinking about how this song would work if there were three of them and not just him. How would he be, if they were there? Sora still messages him from time to time, mostly random pictures of his and Natsume's trips across the sea or Line stickers that Tsumugi does his best to respond to. Would he be steadier? Calmer? Better able to focus, instead of time slipping from him with every menial task he performs?

(Perhaps predictably, he hears nothing at all from Natsume. Tsumugi doesn't let it bother him anymore.)

The last chord rings into an empty room.

Tsumugi’s steps slow to a stop. He has to wait for his hands to steady a few times before he can take a drink of water, giving up and letting the bottle rattle all the way up to his mouth, sloshing water here and there.

“Tsumugi-san.”

 _Ah,_ Tsumugi thinks, staring down at the puddle of water at his feet. _I’ll have to clean that up_. Turning, he smiles at the slim form of his producer, Satoshi Sana. She’s watching him with a faint smile on her fair, light brown hair tucked behind one ear, and it seems like she’s been trying to get his attention for a while.

“Sorry, Satoshi-chan.” His tongue is oddly thick in his mouth. Tsumugi licks his lips. “Was there something you needed me for?”

“Do you have a moment?” And she cannot know how those words clog his lungs, short-circuiting him to a single, ringing point.

Tsumugi wills his hands steady. One breath in, heavy with the scent of fire. Calmly, he says, “Of course. Your office?”

 

* * *

 

The walk is quiet. Satoshi gave him time to change, a towel wrapped around his neck and his hair up in a clumsy, high ponytail to get it as much off the back of his neck as possible. Tsumugi doesn’t know how to break the silence, couldn’t even if he wanted to. It lasts all the way to Satoshi’s desk, where she pulls out a file and very, very carefully centers it before gesturing for Tsumugi to take a seat across from her.

He folds his hands in his lap. If he does, he doesn’t have to feel them shake.

“I’ll be honest, there is no good way to go about saying this. We think,” his producer says delicately, which is how Tsumugi knows it’s trouble because Satoshi Sana-chan only ever is delicate with him when she thinks he can’t take the news, “that you should take a break, Aoba-san.”

White noise fills Tsumugi’s ears. He stares blindly at her for a long moment, and the only thing he thinks before he says, “I’m sorry, what?” is a few words from his horoscope today.

_“Leo: Bad luck. New opportunities may arise, but be on the lookout for some upset in your work! Change can be difficult, but with some effort, you should be able to turn it into a good chance to reconnect with your past. Your lucky item is a hair tie, and your lucky color is red.”_

 

* * *

 

“A break? Idols don’t-“ Tsumugi can’t feel his mouth properly. “Idols don’t get breaks.”

Satoshi waves her hand, flipping over a few pages of the file in front of her. “It’s really less of a break and more… we want you to focus on being ready for a larger performance. I’ll send you the details later.”

Alright, that doesn’t… that doesn’t sound too bad. Breathe, Tsumugi. In. And out. It’s just a break. “When would I be expected to perform next?”

“New Year’s.”

Over three months from now. Tsumugi can already feel the white-hot prickles of panic rush across his skin, blocking out everything except the rattle of his own breath. Is something on fire?

(They really could just tell him to quit now. It would be kinder in the long run.)

“You could go home,” Sana says, her expression unchanging when Tsumugi flinches. “Visit your family.”

“Ah… eh… m-maybe.” Tsumugi would rather rot alone in his apartment. At least the space there is his own. But Sana means her advice kindly so Tsumugi swallows the thought until it lays heavily in his stomach and not between his teeth. “It depends on how busy my mother is. I know my older brother is busy with work during this season, so…”

Satoshi hums, thoroughly unconvinced, but she sets the paperwork on her desk with a nod. “I’ll keep in close touch with you, but your first official check in will be in a few weeks. If anything happens, let me know.”

“Satoshi-chan, may I ask?” Tsumugi licks his numb lips. “Why now?”

“It’s our policy to take care of our idols, Aoba-san, and you have…” Her lips purse. “It’s clear that your mind hasn’t been exactly on your work recently. Please. Take this break as an opportunity for improvement. Come back and prove we weren’t mistaken in bringing you on.”

Tsumugi presses his lips together. Right. There are better ways to tell him that he hasn’t been performing to their standards, he’s sure, but it isn’t Satoshi’s fault that Tsumugi isn’t worth the time anyone puts into him. With a sigh, he nods, stands, and bows perfunctorily, eyes on the floor. “Then I should get started at that, shouldn’t I?” He smiles. “After all, there aren’t many idols who get to say they’re able to take breaks like this.”

Satoshi’s chair clatters as she stands. “Aoba-san. Please. If you need anything, call me.”

Ah, he’s never been able to divert her attention from his non-answers. Meeting her clear eyes, Tsumugi smiles. False false false, all the way across his face. “Of course.”

He won’t. He doesn’t. They both know he won’t, and Tsumugi has been the one offering enough to recognize when sympathy is being offered for the sake of politeness rather than genuine interest. He may still be bad at understanding people, but even he knows that much.

 

* * *

 

 Tsumugi opens the door to his silent apartment. Sheds his shoes in the genkan with nothing but his heartbeat ringing in his ears.

He should order something to eat.

He should have stopped on his way here to get something.

He should have worked harder.

He never should have been an idol in the first place, what did he work so hard for if it was all going to come to nothing?

Get up. Go to the bathroom. Time is a slippery thing, fickle to hold in his hands, and the world is even worse as the walls tilt around him. Tsumugi gets a slice of moonlight from the window, just enough to see himself with, and he looks up at a pale, unrecognizable face.

Tsumugi pulls off the hair tie.

When did he start looking so tired? Where is he in this mess of curls and glasses?

It’s hot. It’s hot and heavy on the nape of his neck, curling around his ears and everywhere he moves, he’s pulling away strands of hair like so many spider webs. Tsumugi’s hands shake with the urge to chop it all off, just to get it _off_ and _away_ , to be able to look in the mirror and see someone he recognized again instead of a pair of unremarkable eyes in a pale face swallowed by curls.

He gets as far as gathering it into a ponytail, finger and thumb looped around the thick mess of hair, until-

A bright glimmer of blue.

Tsumugi fingers the ends of his hair, where the dyed streak from Switch remains. He hasn’t dyed further up his hair since he left Yumenosaki, but Tsumugi still carefully strips and re-dyes it every few months, a habit from school that, like so many other things, hasn’t left him yet. _A red string of fate_ , he thinks, wry as he remembers an old promise, an old determination.

He hesitates.

And then, Tsumugi lets out a long, long breath.

It’s a promise he makes every day.

Bit by bit, he lets go until the whole mass swings free again, heavy and hot as ever. Using his fingers, Tsumugi combs it, trying to coax it into some semblance of order. Instead, it just frizzes until he’s able to pull through smoothly, and he sighs, giving it up as a bad job. Tsumugi separates it into sections clumsily and braids it. He has to stop because his arms get tired, and the result is lopsided, pulling strangely and nothing at all like the neat little braids Hajime used to put in his hair.

He misses them. He misses Yumenosaki and all of its terrible memories and his deep conviction that he was, at least, doing the right thing. It would be so much easier, now, to work if he had that again.

But he doesn’t have that.

All he has right now is a silent, cold apartment, and the sinking realization that if he’s going to be ready to do _anything_ new for New Year’s, he’s going to have to do it himself.

 

* * *

 

It would help, he thinks a few days later, one hand tangled in his hair, if he could think of anything at all to do that isn’t just giving up and going back to Yumenosaki to be a teacher. If they’d even let him in. He hasn’t been successful enough to be a teacher, not really. A moderate reign as the leader of _fine_ , cast aside when his use wore out. 

Tsumugi will be fine, probably, most likely, if he could just figure out what to _do_. Once he knows that, it's just in his nature to apply himself and work as hard as he can. Maybe this time, it will even be enough for once.

 _Please, someone. Anyone._ Tsumugi rubs at his temples, pushing his glasses out of the way. _Help me._ At this rate, he's going to start dreading the days where his lucky color is red. It seems to be a recipe for disaster.

As if the universe heard him, there’s a knock at the door.

“J-Just a moment! I’m –oh, drat,” Tsumugi muffles a few other choice words as he knocks into a pile of books in his dash to the door. With any luck, it’ll be Satoshi-chan, and he can beg to just go back to work, to do _something please_ , but honestly, it’s Tsumugi and he doesn’t know what else to expect except the worst so it’s more likely that it’ll be the landlord come to toss him out and-

Tsumugi opens the door and comes to a complete halt.

"Close your Mouth, Senpai. You're liable to catch Flies," Natsume says with a derisive sniff, cutting as ever. "You don't have to look so Surprised."

Natsume, who stands in front of Tsumugi's run-down, empty apartment like he hasn't been gone, radio-silent, for three years, all of the tears of his graduation left in the ocean between them. The expression is so familiar that Tsumugi swears he’s back in Yumenosaki for a moment before the rest of the details filter in. Natsume is older now, after all. The years have added a new leanness to his face, aided by his hair pulled back into a high ponytail, white and red intermingling. It reminds Tsumugi of Hibiki-kun and when he spots the white braid cutting across the left side of Natsume's hair, he supposes that was the point.

“Natsume-kun,” Tsumugi says, too numb to do anything else. Stupid. Of course it’s Natsume. He knows who he is. Saying his name and nothing else is just dumb and useless, just like the talent agency has decided that _he’s_ dumb and worthless and-

Tsumugi takes a steadying breath and steps away from that line of thought. He doesn’t need to throw up. Not right now anyway. Natsume would never let him live it down.

“Your hair’s gotten longer,” he says. A little nonsensical. A fair amount surprised.

(Natsume is _here_ , his mind keeps circling. But why _now?_ )

“As always, your powers of observation never fail to Impress, Senpai.” With an imperious shake of his head, Natsume steps forward, forcing Tsumugi back as he enters the apartment. “Are you letting me in or Not? I’m sure I haven’t left you alone long enough for you to have forgotten all of your good Manners.”

And wordless, Tsumugi does what he's always done when he's faced with Natsume.

He takes a step back and welcomes him inside.

_Your lucky color is red._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Satoshi Sana is an Enstars OC that @EphemeraIPink is letting me use~ thank you tassie!!! There are going to be more later, inevitably, and i'll post claims when they show up because i love OCs and I love my friends.

**Author's Note:**

> please come yell at me on twitter @tsumoogle (for enstars and other idol gacha games only) or @zenellyraen (for everything else)


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